


Denial

by Fernstrike



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gratuitous smithing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 13:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17142377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike
Summary: There's a way the wind whispers through the trees in Eregion.





	Denial

There's a way the wind whispers through the trees in Eregion. It bears the echoes of footfalls and chisels carving out a city, the calls of workers as they construct a place of knowledge and craft. He builds a new life for himself there. He helps build the towers tall, reaching to the open sky. He and the smiths wreath the doors with the abundant holly around them on the shortest day of the year, their forges burning through the night as they fight the cold with the frenzy of creativity. They string garlands and wind-ups through the trees on the day the sun barely sets, as they celebrate all they’ve done and dance until their feet are green from the earth and drink to all the dreams they’ll make true. They make their traditions, they make their jewels, they make their swords, they create and instead of being spent they are fulfilled, and made greater. He’s never felt so alive. He’s never felt so separate from the chains, from the ties that bind, familial and otherwise. He just wishes that didn't make him feel quite so alone.

* * *

There's a way the wind whispers through the trees in Eregion. It brings heralds with messages from Lindon, and excited whispers, and the scent of mountain pine clinging to the silks of the newcomer. He sits tall upon his horse, with hair dark as the night of a new moon and a smile on his face as if all could be right in the world if all the people here would just believe in it. Celebrimbor knows who it must be. He invites him in to an audience, remembering the warning letters from Lindon, but he’s long since gotten used to paranoia. 

 

_A gift, for the chief smith of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain._

_This is incredible work. These tongs are for jewellery?_

_Jewellery is inept to describe what you can create with this, and other tools, material or otherwise._

 

He hesitates, his eyes on the tool, on the possibilities, on the incredible things they can create together. He looks up, and if he were more foolish, he might have believed that Annatar was looking at him the same way. It sends a thrill through him. He lets the words tumble from his mouth.

 

_Are you - only passing through?_

_I have all the time in the world._

 

He invites him to dine - and he invites him to stay.

* * *

There's a way the wind whispers through the trees in Eregion. It wafts the scents of smoke and sulfur, melting metal, beads of sweat. They've got their tongs in hand, fine as the thorns of roses, carefully holding metal as it is sculpted, as they gently seek out the  _fëa_  within living things to forge power and strength and wisdom and insight and valour. They’re staring as it cools, a perfect golden circle inset with amethyst and emerald. They’re laughing in relief and incredulity, throwing their arms around each other with the unbridled joy of creative success. His face is hot as he steps back, and it's not from the forge, but Annatar just beams at him, and he finds it hard to stop smiling, to keep quiet, to think.

 

_This will be our legacy.  
_

_Your legacy, Celebrimbor.  
_

_No, ours. We couldn't have done it without one another._

_Fine. Ours. But nothing pleases me more than seeing how much your heart is in this, Celebrimbor, and I won’t deny that. Now, drink with me._

_So, do you think we should go with the name? Do you think it’s too pretentious?_

_This project could change the world. I believe a little grandeur is in order._

_Very well. Then, to the rings of power._

_And all the use they’ll be put to._

_Once we're done with these we should-_

 

But he doesn't finish the idea. Somehow, staring at the stones in that first ring, he sees clearly. The moment cracks like porcelain. There’s something in Annatar's smile these days. And Celebrimbor is truly grateful for what he’s learned, he’s grateful for all the moments spent working side by side, the triumphant clink of glasses to celebrate a job well done, the slow blink of Annatar’s bright eyes over the rim of his goblet, the sleepless nights he spends on the chaise in his rooms, dreaming of the forge, of the projects, of his partner…

 

And yet. He doesn’t say what they should do. Not this time. They’ll make the nine, and maybe the seven that they discussed some nights ago when the moon was high and the wine was flowing, and he’ll think about anything else later. But he’ll not say anything yet.

 

Annatar doesn't press him. He never would. Instead he does something completely unexpected, and Celebrimbor loses the ability to form coherent words and thoughts, and all his uneasiness abandons him, and his relief and longing engulf him. It's just them and their bodies. He's glad of the chance to not think.

* * *

There's a way the wind whispers through the trees in Eregion. It carries the sounds of a confession made in the ashen aftermath of all-out war. He is tall, towering above orcs and elves alike, with his golden war paint gleaming in the flames that lick the ceiling, that melt his city like a sword in the crucible, that break the dreams of a thousand years.

 

_Oh Tyelpe, what have they done to you? I did hope there would be no need for shackles. If you're not careful you'll lose both those clever hands of yours._

_Shut your mouth, Gorthaur._

 

_Ah. I see. You really don't recognise me, do you?_

_I know what you are._

_No you don't._

 

_No - ha, oh no, no, no -_

_Yes. Laugh if it makes you feel better. What you remember is just a vision and a shell, but you'd never have thought that I could belong to it._

_You're the Deceiver, and I don’t believe you._

_You can’t believe me, you mean. Look closer. Listen carefully. Trust that godforsaken instinct of yours once again._

 

And for a moment, he almost laughs truthfully. Because it had saved him. It had saved him, and most likely doomed him, to be suspicious, to have an inkling that maybe he and his other smiths should make the Three alone. Not because of Annatar. Just his own creative whims. That was the reason. That could be the only reason. He couldn't allow anything else.

 

_Remember the night that we made the first of the nine? The elation hotter than the forge. I can repeat to you exactly the words you breathed into my ear. I can repeat exactly what I did to you, and you would melt beneath my hands just the same._

 

_And I would tell you nothing. You aren’t Annatar._

_The grieving often begin by denying, I've heard. It's exciting to see it first hand._

 

And he is denying. He has been denying it ever since he felt that bolt out of the blue, that rage of fire that had ripped through his fëa and sent him to the floor, shuddering and insensible to the world as visions flashed through his mind, of a mountain and a black forge, of a golden ring, of chains, of dominion, of despair, of conquest, of slavery. He had denied it even as he sent the Three away. He will keep denying it. And he does. 

 

The Dark Lord may have all the weapons, but he does not have Celebrimbor's heart. That's what he tells himself, at least, to keep the Three safe, if none of the others are spared. He who made the forge glow with a light of his own is not the same as he who is now carefully stripping Celebrimbor of everything except his soul. He will not take that. No-one can. Even as his city burns, he endures.

 

He owes his memories - of those days and nights in the forge, hazy with happiness, relaxing in summer breezes, speaking of stars and dreams - that much at least. He will protect his vision of Annatar and the rings of power as long as he has strength in his body to resist. 

* * *

The wind no longer whispers through Eregion. The trees go silent for a thousand years, razed to the ground, their screams and sobs held deep as they bury themselves completely. The stones assume the burden from bent and broken branches, sounding deep, sounding hollow, as scars that never heal. No-one hears them anymore - and if they do - and they do - passing through with the relics of betrayal and the hopes of the dead on their shoulders - they cannot claim to truly understand.

 

They weep nevertheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Created for @but-what-if-i-fly for the Tolkien Secret Santa 2018. I hope you enjoyed it <3


End file.
